In the Unlikeliest Places
by K Hanna Korossy
Summary: There was something odd about the neighbors. And the two young men who came to see them. Outsider POV.


**In the Unlikeliest Places**  
K Hanna Korossy**  
**

The Lotarski hellions were at it again. I glanced out the dining room window at the first shrieks and just shook my head. The kids were running half-wild, as usual, over the front yard, the street, my yard. Last time, they'd trampled some of my daffodils just as they were about to bloom. Of course, complaining to their parents did no good: those ninnies are terrified of their own children. One day a car was going to put those feral youngsters in the hospital, and maybe then they'd finally settle down.

Across the street, two papers were piled up in front of Mr. Gendler's house. If there was three tomorrow, I'd have to go over and see if the old coot was still alive. He sometimes forgets the paper, but not three days' worth. Of course, the Bennets next door could have checked on him if they weren't so busy with their remodeling, but God knows their new kitchen trumped everything. Including their neighbors; sometimes those construction men and trucks were so loud, I'd have to yell so they could hear me. Ridiculous yuppies, moving into an old neighborhood like this one and immediately starting to change it.

The low rumble from the other direction was new, and I moved to the corner of the sunroom to have a look. Didn't take long for the source to roll into sight, and… well, for a second, I was back in '67, Roger showing off his new car. Sedan, he said, big enough for a family. Sports car, I'd snorted back. That man had never been able to fool me for a minute. But we ended up keeping that car for seven years and three babies, until a delivery truck ran a red light and totaled it. I didn't know if Roger was more upset about the car or his broken leg.

Of course, ours had been a respectable white. The one on the street was a shiny black, like some sort of gangster car. Probably up to no good, and that was confirmed when it stopped in front of the Burroughs' house next door.

Oh, yes, the Burroughs. Monica and Eric, two of the nicest people you could imagine. Eric cut my grass for me and shoveled and raked in season. Monica brought me fresh-baked bread, as if anyone still baked their own these days. They smiled and waved whenever they saw me.

And every time I looked at their place, a shiver goosed my spine.

I was expecting someone…older when the Chevy's doors opened, but I was surprised when out stepped two young men. Tall, both in their twenties, and handsome enough. The bigger one was clearly younger, clean-shaven and wide-eyed. The elder was a James Dean, all leather and attitude. They didn't seem to have much in common…until they started up the Burroughs' walk. Then, the way they moved gave it away. These two had been raised together, brothers, or cousins. They walked like longtime married couples usually do, in rhythm and knowing exactly where the other one was. You don't get that way without years spent together. With their youth, it had to be a lifetime.

There was more to it than that, though. They walked…dangerously. Like they'd not only been raised together but trained for something together. Even Wide Eyes there. Not James Dean. Steve McQueen, or that new James Bond. Someone with experience, not just rebelliousness.

More surprises. This was turning out to be interesting.

I watched them stride up the walk and ring the doorbell. They pulled something out of their pockets, and the blond spoke to the taller one with a grin. Wide Eyes had his back to me so I couldn't see his response, but it made his companion laugh. But when the door opened, they both straightened, Blondie's face going serious, earnest. They opened the leather folds they held like they were badges, flashing them at a surprised Monica.

I snorted. If they were county officials or officers, I'd eat my hydrangeas.

The conversation lasted three minutes. Monica looked concerned and helpful, but she didn't budge out of her doorway. At one point, Blondie's face grew tight, and Wide Eyes stepped up and took over the discussion. Behind them both, I could see his hand dart out and poke Blondie in the side, the elder's face not even flickering in response. I had to smile at that. My money was on brothers. If Monica had any eyes at all, she would've seen that, too, but she had other things on her little mind. As she closed the door, I saw it for a split-second, the hard expression she sometimes got when no one was looking.

The two young men glanced at each other, then went back down the walk. Wide Eyes was saying something, but Blondie's eyes darted around the street, taking everything in. He unexpectedly looked up at me, and our eyes met for a second. Cut right through me, in fact, like he saw too much.

I frowned at him and dropped the curtain. Nosy young people. I went to make some tea, listening as the Chevy rumbled away. But I still itched with curiosity over what all that had been about.

I had half a mind to go over there and ask Monica about it, but I knew better than that. I'd be invited in for tea and fresh-from-the-oven something-or-other, and we'd talk about the weather and flowers and recipes until I was ready to run away screaming. No thanks. I went outside instead to weed the side vegetable garden, hoping she'd come out, too, and I could squeeze something out of her.

But she stayed in her house all afternoon. Eric went straight inside when he got home from work, too.

I nuked up a Swanson's—hadn't cooked a meal since Roger died—and ate it with some wine while I checked the March Madness scores and watched a rerun of _The King of Queens. _That Leah girl far outclassed the lout they paired her with, but considering all those TV executives were men who just wanted beautiful women in their shows, that wasn't too surprising. At least Jerry Stiller was always funny.

I think I fell asleep somewhere during _Deal or No Deal_. One minute I was watching the cueball Howie Mandel, the next, Leno was talking to some blonde teenager in a skimpy outfit. There was a low rumble over the laugh track, and I turned the TV off to listen.

The Chevy. It was back.

I crossed to the sunroom window, this time to the one that had a view down the street. Near the corner, I thought I saw headlights for a second before they flashed off, but in the distance and the night, I wasn't sure.

I did see the two dark figures that soon slipped around the Burroughs' fence, though.

I quickly put my glasses on and leaned closer to the glass.

They were dressed all in black. I wouldn't have seen them at all if the streetlight in front our houses hadn't been working, which it was thanks to a few dozen calls to the city maintenance office. As it was, they still stayed low to the ground and the brick-and-iron fence, and they moved with stealthy ease. Jewel thieves, I wondered with a thrill, feeling my heart speed up pleasantly. We hadn't had a crime in the neighborhood since the Romanos' thuggish little Hayden had broken into Margaret Teets' garage to steal a bicycle, unless you counted those criminally wild Lotarski brats.

I couldn't see their faces, but between the Chevy I was fairly sure was up the street and the height and bearing of these two, I knew it was the young men from before. They seemed to communicate without talking and even a minimum of gestures. Intrigued, I watched as they split up, the shorter one—Blondie, although a black cap covered that gelled hair—checking the windows in the front while his younger accomplice slipped around back. When a car rolled past, Blondie melted into the shadows.

The phone rang, startling a few years off me. I quickly lunged across the sunroom for it, hearing only the first word to know it was my eldest daughter. "Georgia, not now!" I snapped, and hung up. But I kept the phone with me as I eased back to the window. I didn't—quite—think I was watching a burglary, but if they came out with a bag of loot, I had 9-1-1 on speed dial. I'd just seen enough _CSI_ and _Law & Order_ to know burglars usually struck during the day and didn't dress like Cary Grant in _To Catch a Thief. _And it was just common sense that they didn't usually introduce themselves to the homeowners earlier that day. If they'd been, as they say, casing the joint, they certainly hadn't seen very much. No, I had a feeling more was going on here than just some larceny. Maybe someone else was finally suspicious of those disturbing Burroughs', too.

I didn't quite see where Blondie found an entrance, but he soon disappeared from view, too.

I watched the Burroughs' house nervously. I couldn't quite bring myself to call the police. There had always been something off about that house, about Monica and Eric. About the private backyard. But I'd never known what, and it had eaten at me. Maybe these two young men could discover something I couldn't.

And, all right, I was curious, too.

Long minutes passed. The clock on the mantel ticked loudly in the quiet, and yet again I contemplated taking a baseball bat to the thing. Always had been obnoxiously distracting.

A light came on in the Burroughs' living room.

I narrowed my eyes, trying to see something.

A police siren started wailing distantly, and I found myself muttering under my breath. "Get out of there. Get out of there, you idiots." But nothing was moving.

The sirens got louder, and then a squad car was pulling into the Burroughs' driveway, followed by another. Their lights painted the brick walls of our houses a gaudy blue and red. If I'd been asleep, I'd be awake now.

They ran up to the front door, which opened for them. Everyone disappeared inside. Then, a minute later…

"Oh, Blondie," I commiserated as two of our brave men in blue came out with the elder mystery man handcuffed between them. His cap was off, blond hair mussed as he twisted and yelled, and I could hear him clearly this time.

"—still in there, my friend—just check, would you? Hey, Sipowicz, would you just listen to me a second? They have him—he's still—"

One of the uniforms, and don't think I didn't recognize Brad Norris in that fancy get-up, hit Blondie hard across the stomach with his nightstick. I flinched as all the air went out of him and he sagged in their grip for a moment. But he was up a second later, eyes blazing.

"If they hurt him, I swear to God—"

"Yeah, yeah," Brad jeered back. That simpleton always had been a bully. He shoved Blondie into the back of the police car with far more force than necessary, slamming the door on his protest. Blondie was framed in the back window, staring at the house and yelling something as the car pulled away.

Even across our yard, in the dark, I could see the terror in his face.

Eric had appeared in the doorway in his bathrobe, and the officers talked to him a few more minutes. I couldn't hear the conversation, just saw him shake his head several times, run a hand through his hair like he was rattled. But his face was steady, and his eyes, when they darted, only looked back into the house, not at his departing "intruder." He finally nodded and stepped inside to shut the door, and the officers got in the remaining car and left.

A minute later, the downstairs light went off, the Burroughs' house dark and silent.

I stood, staring at it a long time, feeling something I hadn't in years. Fear.

Where had Blondie's little brother gone?

00000

I woke up again in the gray light of dawn, stiff and uncomfortable in my easy chair. It didn't take long to remember why I was there, and I quickly peeked out the window at the Burroughs' house. But everything was silent and still. Same with all our neighbors, every way I looked, as if nothing had happened. As if a young man hadn't just disappeared into the house next door.

In the strengthening light, I could see the car up the street now. And to my surprise, the trunk was open.

I sat up, my idle wish I'd had time to get some coffee already forgotten.

The trunk slammed shut, the sound tiny in the distance, and all I could see was that a figure was moving around it with purpose. For a few seconds, I dared hope it was Wide Eyes, but I'd seen those two enough to realize the build, the movement was wrong. Blondie was somehow back. And he was loading up for bear.

I watched him circle around to the driver-side door and lean in the car a moment, then stand again. He was out of the black clothes, back in what looked like jeans and perhaps a shirt or a light jacket. He was doing something, but his face kept turning to look up the street. To the Burroughs'.

I swallowed, thinking, debating. Remembering his obvious panic the night before.

He finally seemed ready, and he shut the Chevy's door with restrained impatience. He held only a duffel bag, and his walk up the street was brisk and sure-footed, a man on a mission.

I was still arguing with myself as I moved to the door. I didn't know anything about Blondie; it was foolish to get involved; I was an easy target in the privacy of my house; I was too old for this.

I think it was the last one that had me reaching for the doorknob.

I waited until he was close, at the corner of the fence, studying the house critically. That was when I leaned out and called in a loud whisper to him. "Hey, you. Blondie."

He didn't look startled as he turned to me. Which probably should have worried me right there, but I was committed now. I tried not to look as shaky as I felt when his brows drew together and he stalked my way.

I stepped back, holding the door open. "Come inside a minute. I need to talk to you."

"Lady, I don't know what you want, but I don't have time for—"

"—arguing. That's what you don't have time for. If you want to save that brother of yours, you'll get your rear end in here." I motioned impatiently, never having been one to suffer idiots well.

He blinked; finally, a moment's slip of surprise. Then his expression went flat and he stepped inside my doorway. "Okay, you've got thirty seconds to tell me what you know."

"Oh, I've got all day. Sit down."

His jaw tightened and he just stood there and stared at me.

I huffed. "Fine. _I'll_ sit down." I headed back for my easy chair.

"I don't have time for this," he muttered, and turned to reach for the doorknob.

"I saw what happened, with you and your brother last night," I said as I sank down.

He paused, his back to me, head turned so I saw his profile.

"You know there's something wrong with that house, too, don't you?" I asked more softly.

A few seconds passed. Then he pivoted back. I thought I saw a glint of a gun at his waist as he moved, and felt my mouth dry even as he repeated, low, "Tell me what you know." It wasn't a request.

I took a breath. "I know the Burroughs have lived next door for four years this summer. Since then, they've planted so many trees in the backyard, you can't see an inch of it. Sometimes, late at night, you can see some light shining through, and it just feels…wrong. Like a cold finger down your back."

"How often?" Blondie asked tersely, but he was paying attention with all his being, I could see it.

"Once every six months or so." I paused, thinking. "Actually, around the start of spring and fall. The equinox, or the solstices? I always get those confused."

His eyes—handsome gold-and-green—slid to the side as he nodded, thinking. "Equinox," he murmured. Then he looked up at me again. "Always at night?"

I nodded.

His shoulders came down a little. "That's tonight. They probably won't do anything before then."

"Like I said," I pointed out.

That same cut-right-through-you look came back as he took a step closer. "You see what happened to the guy who was with me?"

"Not since he disappeared around back last night," I said regretfully, and saw something flicker in his eyes. "But like you said, they probably wouldn't do something before tonight, right?" It was boggling my mind that we were sitting in my living room talking about kidnapping and…I wasn't sure what, but murder didn't seem too farfetched a thought anymore.

Blondie nodded, glanced around the room, then back to me. "How'd you know he's my brother?"

I snorted. "You don't fit like that with somebody without a lot of years to mold you."

"Well, that sounds vaguely kinky," he said under his breath, looking around the room again. He caught on the sunroom before I could say anything. "So, you're like the, what, one-woman neighborhood watch in here? Keep an eye on all the neighbors?" He moved over to the window I'd witnessed the previous night's events from and shifted the curtain aside, sharp eyes scanning the area, the house. For all his light tone, I could see the tension, the worry in him.

It was the only reason I wasn't as arch as I could have been. "You ever been cooped up someplace, Blondie?"

"Name's Dean. And yeah, I have." He flung me a brief smile. "Didn't make me go all Jimmy Stewart, though." He went back to looking out the curtain.

Someone under thirty who knew Hitchcock couldn't be all bad. Even if he was Dean, not McQueen, after all. "Hazel," I said grudgingly.

"Like the witch?"

It wasn't the first time I'd heard that, but my stock answer wasn't going to do this time. I had a feeling that, yes, there might possibly be witches out there, after all, and God only knew what else. "Like your eyes," I shot back.

He did look at me then, mouth twitching like he wanted to smile for real this time. "You flirting with me, Hazel?"

I glared at him from the depths of my rose-patterned chair, and knew how ridiculous I looked. "You can always leave, _James_."

He didn't miss a beat. "I have a cause." He dropped the curtain and the humor and moved, coiled and smooth, to the chair across from me. "My brother Sam and me, we're looking into some local disappearances. Funny thing is, they all seem connected to that house." He tilted his head toward the window. "You notice anything like that, people going in and not coming out?"

I gave him a dry look. "Believe it or not, I'm not at that window 24/7."

He tipped his head, conceding.

I sighed. "The Burroughs entertain a lot. It's not unusual to see them having guests over. I'm not always awake by the time they leave."

Dean's eyebrows rose. "They busier than usual around the equinoxes?"

"I always thought they were throwing some sort of party back there then—they had enough guests. But whether anyone came before then…I don't remember, I'm sorry."

"No, that's good," he said absently. His gaze went distant a moment, then snapped back to me. "All right, Hazel. I want you to tell me everything you do remember, starting when they first moved in."

I did. Told him all I knew and most of what I thought, while he asked questions and listened intently.

At least it wasn't going to be a boring day.

00000

Somewhere along the way, my house became a headquarters.

It turned out that duffel bag of his was full of weapons. I'm sure I flinched when he started unpacking them, and I knew he saw it, but all he said was, "You sure about this, Hazel?"

Well, in for a penny, in for a million dollars, and he hadn't raped and murdered me yet. I nodded mutely, and he went back to work, checking his guns and knives with what even I could see was professional ease.

He did go out after that, to scout the neighboring house, only to return frustrated that everything was locked up. It went against his grain to wait and do nothing, especially with his brother trapped; I could see it in how he paced, the stark way he watched the house. But there was nothing to be done for it and we both knew it. Those also serve who only blah, blah, blah.

I fixed sandwiches for lunch, dug out some old pop from when Georgia's brood was visiting. I'm not the baking cookies type, but half my carton of rum raisin vanished over the course of the afternoon. I'd forgotten about young men's appetites, even though I could tell Dean was eating more out of distraction than anything. Every minute when we weren't talking or he wasn't on the phone or bent over a battered leather-bound book, he was at the window. Looking for Sam—his brother—I knew, and I couldn't bring myself to be too annoyed when he occasionally snapped a curse, then apologized.

"If you're right about this…whatever they're planning to do tonight, Sam's bound to be safe until then, isn't he?" I finally spoke up. "I mean, they need him for tonight, right?"

He was interesting, this rebel-with-a-cause guest of mine. He was as tense as a pressed spring, but you'd never know it from the way he moved or joked. But bring up Sam, and one of two things happened, both about as subtle as that purple house down on the corner: he shut down or he softened up. Reminded me of the dog Annabel had brought home once that you never knew if it would lick you or bite you. It loved us fiercely, the dumb animal, but both reactions came from fear.

"Dean," I insisted when he didn't answer, even though I knew he'd heard me.

"Yeah," he finally said, gruff. "Makes sense." His smile was more teeth-baring than humor. "Trouble is, people don't always make sense."

"Isn't that the truth," I grumbled. I was working on a jigsaw puzzle at the table, but a lot of it was dark, hard to piece together. Next time I wasn't going to let Timothy pick one for me. That boy was my firstborn and I loved him, but sometimes he was as oblivious as a brick.

"Sam, uh…" There was a pause, and I didn't move, fingers pressing an edge piece as I listened. He'd shared a few things about his brother, but they were all teasing fondness, the kind of stories siblings always tell about each other. But this was something deeper, and if I looked up, I knew he wouldn't say it to my face. "He's my responsibility, you know? Ever since he was a baby."

"Dean," I said firmly to the tabletop, "just because you're the oldest doesn't mean anything that happens to him is your fault."

There was a pause, heavy and dark. I thought he'd closed off again, until he suddenly asked, "You have kids, Hazel?"

I blinked up at him. "Three. Boy and two girls."

"You see them a lot? Call them up when you need something?"

"Yes," I said warily, not seeing where this was going. "Of course."

"Sam's all I've got left, and I'm all he's got. So don't tell me about responsibility and _fault_."

I swallowed and stared him in the eye. "I lost my younger sister to measles she caught from _me_. So don't tell me you have the corner on guilt, Junior."

He stared at me a long moment, and I couldn't help think for a second about the lethal way he could move. And then he suddenly grinned, and he reminded me in that moment of Roger. "For an old woman, you're not half bad, Hazel."

"Be still, my beating heart," I drawled. I slid a piece around, then glanced up sideways. "He'll be fine," I said, gentler.

His eyes were more brown than green now as they searched me solemnly. "Yeah. Yeah, he will be." He might've been part soldier, but he was still scared, and I was still a mother.

I nodded, went back to my puzzle. "So, sun sets in two hours. Have you got a plan?" I found where the piece went, feeling the satisfaction of it snapping into place.

Dean looked out the window again. The fear and humor were gone, leaving only the person I fully believed would do anything necessary to get his brother back. "Oh yeah. I've got a plan."

The way he said it made me shiver.

00000

Dean crept out of the back door just as twilight started to give way to night.

He left me with explicit instructions I might have balked at it if I hadn't conceded long before that I was out of my league here, while Dean…Dean had probably led a coup to take over the league when he was still in grade school. Besides, they made sense: keep my door locked, call 9-1-1 if I heard any gunshots—gunshots!—and call the number he gave me if he wasn't back in an hour. And then he was gone.

And my oh-so-useful part of this plan was to just sit and wait.

I didn't have a window with a good view of the Burroughs' backyard, but I glued myself to the best one I had, one I could see half the area from at an angle. Lights already shone through the dense trees, and there was a scatter of cars on the street in front. Whatever party they had going was already in full swing. I just hoped Sam wasn't the entertainment.

And yes, I couldn't believe I was seriously thinking that, either.

A half hour passed, then forty minutes. At forty-two, I thought I heard a few muffled screams. I rubbed my sweaty palms on my slacks and gripped the phone tighter.

At forty-six, someone banged urgently on my back door.

I hurried as much as my bad knees would allow, needing only one glance to see it was Dean. I fumbled the lock open and threw the door wide.

Sam—or at least it looked like Sam from those long legs—was hanging over Dean's shoulder, arms swinging limply.

Dean lurched inside. "Close the door," he said tersely. "I don't think anyone followed me, but make sure it's locked."

I did, my hands shaking. "Is he—?"

"The car's not far. Get the front door for me."

Startled, I moved that way but planted myself in front of the door instead of opening it. "No."

His grip tightened on his brother's waist, and Dean's eyes narrowed. "Hazel—"

"Either we call an ambulance, or my spare room's back there, Dean. Your choice."

His teeth ground together. I lifted my chin. Then something that might have been respect, maybe even gratitude, lit his eyes. "Wasn't looking forward to carrying his heavy ass down there, anyway. Fine, show me."

I walked quickly, hearing his heavy breathing behind me as he followed.

I hadn't aired the room in a while, but I figured neither Dean nor Sam would much care. Nor that it was a rose-embroidered bedspread that he started to lower his brother down onto before I reached to pull back the covers.

That was when I saw why Sam needed to be carried.

Up close, I could hear the rasp of his breathing. The bruising was wide and deep across his throat, and that turned out to be just the start. As Dean efficiently began stripping his brother's clothes off, more lines of rough red and purple skin came into sight, criss-crossing his torso and arms. Probably down his legs, too, but at that point Dean asked me to get him some first aid supplies and water, and I didn't see any more, which was a relief.

I had to pause a moment in the hallway to pull myself together. I hadn't lived an easy life, and I had a low tolerance for the fools of the world, but I had rarely faced true malice. There'd been that molester caught in our neighborhood once, and the rabid dog that had nearly attacked Annabel when she was little, before Roger shot it. But what had been done to that boy, in a neighbor's backyard… I didn't know if I was quaking with fear or anger.

Then I heard Sam cough, and Dean's quiet voice.

"Can you breathe? Okay, just take it easy, Sammy. You're doing fine."

That was all the impetus I needed to get moving.

By the time I got back, Sam was on his side under the blankets, propped up by every pillow on the bed. Dean was sitting up by his chest and talking to him in low tones. I saw Sam's head nod once, weakly, but couldn't see his face nor wanted to intrude. When he coughed again, hoarsely and painfully, I put a hand on Dean's upper arm, waiting until he turned, then pressed a glass of water into his hand. Over his shoulder, I could just glimpse Sam's half-open, red eyes.

Dean lifted his brother's head and smoothed back his hair while he spluttered through a few sips. Dean surprised me by drinking most of the remainder himself. I realized why when he dropped a pair of pills into the inch of remaining liquid, crushed them with what looked to me suspiciously like the heel of a switchblade, and made Sam finish the drugged water.

After that, Dean took the towels and ice I'd brought and started efficiently wrapping ice packs, talking quietly the whole time. I stood far back, listening to Sam hiss with each application: neck, back, elsewhere under the blankets. Sometimes he croaked a few words through what sounded like a painfully swollen throat, and Dean quietly answered. He paused between each ice pack to brush his brother's shoulder, hair, jaw, and I finally realized he wasn't just distracting, he was offering contact that didn't hurt. It was remarkably perceptive for a young man.

It was something a mother would do.

All the ice distributed and Sam's body finally lax and sedated, Dean took the water and the first aid kit and started on the ugly bruises. I came over and sat on Sam's other side, earning a long look but no comment, which I took for permission. It might have been my house, but it wasn't my territory here. When I started passing him supplies as he worked, his tightlipped silence finally relented.

"They were druids."

"What?" I looked up, frowning in confusion.

He cleared his throat. "Your neighbors—fun people, by the way—they were druids. Tree worshippers."

"Oh." I cocked my head, soberly noting the past tense. "Naturally."

Sam moaned, and Dean's palm went flat over his breastbone until the younger man drifted.

Dean's eyes rose to mine, fell again as he kept cleaning and treating injuries with what seemed to be a remarkably skillful, careful touch. "They're not too common anymore, and most of them are harmless, dance-naked-in-the-moonlight weirdos. But the…"

"…Burroughs," I supplied.

A sharp nod of the head. "They went for the extra gold star—human sacrifices. You know, for when you care enough to send the very best."

I bit down on a gasp. I don't know why I was even surprised at this point.

Dean gave me a longer look, gauging my reaction. His face was guarded.

I pursed my lips. "Well, there goes the neighborhood."

He choked on a laugh before he could catch himself, then rubbed his eyes wearily. "No kidding," he mumbled. I hadn't even asked how he'd gotten out of police custody the night before, but somehow I doubted he'd slept much.

"What are…these marks?" I asked slowly, my hand hovering over a particularly ugly patch of abraded, blackening skin on Sam's arm.

"Vines and branches," Dean said tersely.

Oh, God. I really didn't want to know any more.

Dean sat up. "Look, Hazel, I appreciate everything you've done, really. Soon as Sam wakes up, we'll get out of your hair, okay? There's no reason we have to stay."

I gave him a cold look. "Shut up, _Sean."_

His mouth pulled up into a weary smile. "Connery?"

"Penn," I said witheringly, enjoying his grimace.

"Funny. Witch."

Sam groaned, whispering something that might have been "Dean."

"Tend to your brother." I stood, patting him on the back as I went around the mattress to the door. "I'm going to bed."

"Hazel," he said just as I reached the doorway.

I rolled my eyes. Here it came, the subdued thank you, the embarrassing honesty. I hid my wince before I turned back.

"Could you stay with Sam a little while? Got me some wood that needs burning."

And even though his eyes were dark again and his smile icy, I laughed.

00000

The fire never reached my house. Amazing, the firefighters said when I joined them outside to watch the blaze. Well-set, I thought in the quiet of my own mind. The Burroughs were nowhere to be found, their bewildered children quickly claimed by equally bewildered grandparents. That was about all I needed or wanted to know.

Mr. Gendler finally picked up his papers. The Lotarski terrors turned their yard into a mud pit and began wrestling. The Byrnes one house down were on again, Mr. Byrne's sports car in the driveway once more. Everyone slowed down in front of the Burroughs' house and then kept walking.

Sam spent the next two days in bed, which meant I didn't see much of Dean, either. Food was gratefully received at the door, but that was the limit of my involvement. More wasn't welcome, and so I didn't offer. I did catch Dean trying to wash dishes late one night before I chased him out. They may have taken over my guest room, but damned if they'd have my kitchen, too.

Besides, I figured someone owed those boys something.

The shuffling, bowed, polite young man who appeared the third day made me revise upward yet again my estimation of Dean. Anyone who raised that intelligent and compassionate a person—and I had no illusions anymore that Dean was as much parent as brother here—earned my respect. Not that I told him. The boy was already full of himself as it was. Sam was far too serious, but I suspect he had to be to balance Dean.

Then I saw Sam put a half-dozen spoonfuls of salt in his brother's coffee while Dean was getting him some water, and I decided I liked both of them, God help me. We exchanged conspiratory smirks while Dean sputtered and gagged.

They left the fourth day. Sam was still slow but mobile, and Dean had checked the Burroughs' backyard one more time. They were both restless in their own way, and I knew it was time. I waited outside on the steps with Sam while his brother went down the street to get the car, and I looked him over, noting with approval the way he was healing, still flinching at the sight of the ugly injuries.

"He won't be back," Sam said suddenly, his voice still hoarse at the edges. He turned to look at me with those wide eyes. "He likes you, a lot, but he doesn't get close to people."

I looked steadily back at him. "You ever take a turn at driving, young man?"

His smile was slower than his brother's but no less blinding. "Yes, ma'am."

"Good." I nodded.

The Chevy pulled up in front of us, and Dean was out and at the steps before we'd even managed to stand. He handled Sam like china, which Sam took with good grace and a longsuffering look at me. Dean saw it and whacked him on the head. Sam jabbed him back with an elbow.

"You show him," I cheered him on.

"Witch," Dean growled at me over one shoulder while manhandling his brother into the car. As I recall, Roger's six-one frame had some trouble fitting into our Chevy, and Sam had a few inches on him.

I laughed. "Watch it, Mel."

He lit up. "Mad Max?"

"Hamlet."

His face fell dramatically as he shut Sam's door, and he shook his head. "Man, that's just mean."

Sam looked at us both through the window in utter bewilderment, but I wasn't about to enlighten him. I just smiled.

Dean still didn't say thank you, or good-bye. Didn't say anything, just kissed me on the cheek and gave me a look before he drove off. I felt my face burn, especially when those stupid Lotarski brats started chortling behind me. I gave them my best glare, and they panicked and ran.

Good. Wouldn't want anyone to think I was going soft or anything.

Thank God no one was around to see me when I went back inside and found a freshly picked crocus—from my garden, no doubt—and the scrap of paper with only a phone number on it, waiting for me on my kitchen table.

**The End**


End file.
